Shattered Illusions
by Blackbirdox
Summary: He's been waiting for this since the start; waiting for Arthur to come around and waiting for the end to their elaborate charade.


The décor of the room is always the same and it's so very Arthur- posh and classic. The walls are a clean shade of ivory and free from accents, save for a painting or two. The lighting is dim and muted and most of it is moonlight that streams in through the open drapes. The carpet is clean and soft and so is the bedding, made up of silk and finely woven linens in a matching shade of ivory.

It's lovely, undoubtedly, as is everything that Arthur creates- impeccable down to the last detail.

She too is lovely- flawless and delicate and as carefully architectured as the room itself.

Her dress is navy blue, made up of taffeta and lace, and it's elegant and tailored to fit every curve. Her skin is pale as porcelain, accented by a thick, sweeping fan of lashes that brush across her rosy cheeks. Her hair is dark, her eyes a striking blue, and her lips are pink and pouty, painted up to be a vivid shade of red.

It requires time and tedious effort to create and perfect her and she is nothing short of exactly that- _perfect_. She's not real, merely an illusion, but she's stunning; graceful and gorgeous as any work of art.

The dress crinkles and flounces around her knees as she walks, crossing the floor on stocking covered feet. "Arthur," she croons, her voice low and husky and shrouded in the lilt of a soft English accent.

He turns but says he says nothing. He just simply watches her from across the room, drinking in her features and her soft lines and planes hungrily, like it's the last time he's ever going to lay eyes on them.

Her mouth curves upwards as she saunters across the room and places a delicate hand on his chest, filling the space between them with the her scent- soft wafts of floral perfume with undertones of alcohol and cigarettes. "Darling," she purrs, tilting her head to the side just slightly, allowing her curls to spill over her shoulder. "What's the matter? Aren't you happy to see me?" Her smile is taunting. Challenging.

Arthur lifts his hand, folds it around the soft curve of her neck and pushes his thumb against her throat, neither rough nor gentle, executing just enough pressure to make her gasp. "I always am," he murmurs, tracing his thumb across her skin. "Always."

His words stir something inside of her, deep inside, but she chooses to ignore it- knows she _has _to ignore it because now isn't the time for feelings. That isn't what this is about.

Instead, her mouth contorts into a familiar smirk and her eyes flutter shut as she raises up on the tips of her toes to press her soft lips to his, winding her fingers, long and elegant, around the fabric of his tie. She lingers for only a moment before she pulls away, ever the tease, and takes a step backwards, reaching around for the zipper on her dress.

Arthur's gaze smolders as he watches her tug it down slowly, letting the fabric fall inch by inch until it pools at her feet, leaving her in nothing but lace- lingerie, a garter belt and thigh highs that nestle snugly against her alabaster skin.

He reaches out and curls his hand around the subtle dip of her hipbone, pulling her forward until she's pressed flush up against him. She raises an eyebrow suggestively and swivels her hips around in a way that makes Arthur groan and grip her tightly to keep her still, possibly tight enough to leave a bruise if they were in a place where all of that mattered. "You're a tease," he tells her, leaning down to bump his nose against hers.

She tilts her head so their lips brush, her eyes twinkling in amusement. "Now, now, pet. It's not nice to call names," she chides as she presses her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scents of cologne and smoke and something that's just distinctly Arthur.

He utters a noncommittal hum as his fingers skim across her back, her skin flushed and warm beneath his own. Her lips graze his neck before she pulls away and Arthur stares transfixed as she turns around, dragging her fingers across the plane of his chest as she makes her way over to the bed, moving with cat-like grace and fluidity.

She sits down on the very edge of it and demurely crosses her legs at the ankles, fixating him with a 'come hither' look that makes his heart race and his pulse pound.

Arthur joins her in an instant and eases her down until her back presses against the mattress and then he kisses her- hot and wet and opened mouthed, all clashing teeth and battling tongues. His hands knot into her hair and hers hold onto the lapels of his shirt, each trying to pull each other as close as they can.

It's always like this- rough and hurried and kind of clumsy. Arthur insists on it. He insists on every aspect really, from the location to the amount of time they stay in the dream to the illusion that masks the truth about this that he's not yet able to face. This is what makes it easy for him so this is what they do; they pretend and they lie but it works out in the end because, in an oddly convoluted way, they still manage to get what they want.

Arthur pulls back from the kiss with a loud gasp, ducking his head to press his lips to her neck instead, biting and nipping and sucking at the soft flesh until it begins to turn purple and she begins to gasp, writhing and wiggling back and forth beneath him.

Her hands scramble around everywhere- tugging off his tie and his waistcoat and unbuttoning his shirt, buttons scattering everywhere when she rips it, and then she moves down to his belt, practically mauling it to get it off because she's never been one for patience.

He groans low and deep against her skin as he trails his hand up the length of her leg, ankle to thigh, and hoists it up around his hip, letting her heel press into the small of his back. He unhooks her garter and rolls her stocking down and then repeats the process on the other side, nuzzling his nose against her soft skin as he exposes it, making her giggle. She threads her fingers through his hair and pulls him forward into another kiss that's so hard it's almost bruising; rough and painful in the best way possible.

Remaining clothes are ripped off in a hurry and tossed aside to join the pile on the floor and then Arthur wraps his arms around her and pulls her tight against him, rutting his hips as her legs wind themselves around his waist.

Arthur's breathing grows ragged and he pants, gasping for air against her parted lips. "D-Drop it," he gasps out, his voice stern behind its jagged edge. "Drop the forge."

In an instant, it's all gone. The gentle curves beneath his hands, the curls tickling his nose, the smoothness of the cheek and the softness of the skin pressed against his own- all of it is gone, replaced instead by muscle and stubble and a distinct, gravely voice that groans his name right into his ear, making him shudder and whine with need.

"_Eames." _

Eames grows helplessly still for a moment and just clutches at Arthur and holds him tightly, like he's afraid he's going to just up and disappear. He's been waiting for this since the start; waiting for Arthur to come around, waiting for the end to their elaborate charade and waiting to experience it for himself rather than through the guise of some pretty young thing.

Arthur feels the same and tastes the same and smells the same but everything is different now- more significant, somehow, like he's seeing something in color that he only ever used to see in black and white.

And the colors are brilliant- blinding reds and oranges, a blazing inferno of heat and passion, and pure white heat that surges through him when Arthur bucks his hips against his own.

Eames stills him by flipping him over and Arthur releases a gasp as his back slams against the mattress and he finds himself pinned there beneath Eames- unable to move, hardly able to breath.

"It's about bloody time," Eames growls into his ear, clamping his teeth down around the lobe. Arthur utters a broken, sob-like moan and says _yes, yes it is _and then _Eames, oh God _and then _fuck me_, and he thrusts his hips upward for emphasis, making Eames groan.

He says nothing but he complies. Arthur's legs lock tightly around his waist and Eames grips his hips and thrusts into him, forceful and hard, and Arthur is prepped and ready as he can only be in a dream so the cry that escapes him stems from pleasure rather than pain.

Eames is rough, perhaps almost unnecessarily so, but all his anger and his frustration over months of waiting have caused him to finally reach his breaking point so he just lets all of it go, desperate to prove his point. He wants to show Arthur what he's done to him, what the toying and the games have done to him, and he wants Arthur to hurt because Arthur hurt him. He wants Arthur to know that this is real and that no matter how hard Arthur tries to change him, it's never going to happen because Eames is always going to be Eames, whether Arthur likes it or not. If this is what he wants, this is what he's going to get and there's going to be no more pretending or lies or illusions- there's only going to be the two of them, just as they are.

He fucks Arthur six ways to Sunday, fucks him until he can't breathe or think and until the only word leaving his mouth is a cracked cry of Eames' name.

Arthur's skin is flushed and his hair is a mess and he's covered in bite marks and bruises but when Eames rolls off of him, he still curls into his side and he apologizes- whispering _I'm sorry _in between the kisses that he lavishes to Eames' chest.

Eames wraps his arms around him and just holds him as they wait for their kick- telling him that it's alright and that he understood and that, in spite of everything, he's glad he's finally come around.

And when they wake up in reality, Arthur practically topples out of his chair is his haste to get to Eames and he kisses him, full on the mouth for the very first time, and says, _me too. _


End file.
